


lose a little sleep at night

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Caretaking, M/M, Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 11:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: The thing they've been doing for years, and never talk about.





	lose a little sleep at night

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I can honestly say that this is the first time in my twenty-year fanfic career that I came home from seeing a movie and immediately sat down to write some porn. Thanks, shirtless Brad and crying Leo?

"You alright?" Cliff asks when the episode ends, rolling his head to the side along the back of the sofa to look at Rick through the cloud of smoke. Rick's face is wet. It's nothing Cliff hasn't seen before. "You want me to make you another drink?"

Rick waves a hand, directionless. "Make yourself one, too."

"As though I wouldn't." He leans forward, reaches out. Puts a hand on Rick's thigh and squeezes hard. "It was a good episode."

"Thanks," Rick mumbles, then sniffs. "Sorry I'm like this."

"Fuck that thought, man," Cliff says. He stands up, feeling only a little bit drunk. "Time for more alcohol."

He makes them each another sour at the bar, pouring Rick's a little lighter than normal. "All right, come over here and get comfortable," he says as he sets their drinks on the table and settles back down in the corner of the sofa - it's a nice piece, cushy; Rick no doubt paid a pretty penny for the buttery leather. 

Rick grabs the glass and downs a good half, then stretches out along the cushions with his head in Cliff's lap. Cliff holds his drink in one hand and curves the other over Rick's neck, thumb at the base of his skull. On the television, Glen Campbell strums his guitar. Cliff chews a piece of ice, then says, "You ever learn the guitar?"

"Tried. Couldn't get my fingers to move right."

"Well, did you practice?"

"Fuck off, Cliff," Rick grumbles, but without heat. Cliff chuckles and works his thumb in circles for a while, feeling some of the tension Rick always carries leech out of him, then repeats the motion in the spot behind Rick's ear until Rick says, "Nevermind, don't fuck off, keep doing that."

Cliff drains his glass, remaining ice clinking, and leans forward over Rick to put it down on the table. He runs his damp fingers through Rick's hair half a dozen times, then gets a good handful and tugs, gently. Rick's head tilts backwards, his mouth opening. Cliff curls the fingers of his free hand over Rick's bottom lip and teeth, fingertips just resting on his tongue. "You still watching this bullshit, or what?"

Rick shakes his head, a small shift.

"Come on," Cliff murmurs, "bedroom."

One smooth movement to get Rick upright, another to pull him up from the sofa by his upper arms. He kisses Cliff then - it's a lazy thing that tastes of whiskey and lime. Cliff chases his mouth and pulls his shirt free of his slacks at the same time, then walks Rick down the hallway to the bedroom without letting go of his belt. He can walk this route without conscious thought; he's done it enough over the years. "You don't have to put me to bed when I'm like this," Rick said once, petulant, drunk enough to be stumbling, nearly missing the foot of the mattress as he tried to sit down on it. 

"You want me to fuck you instead?" Cliff asked in reply, and tipped Rick backwards with a single calculated push to the shoulder. That was how it started: Rick's eyes closing even as he got a clumsy handful of Cliff's shirt to pull him down as well. 

The bed is unmade, the sheets still pushed to one side from when Rick rolled out of it this morning. Cliff drops him there, tells him to take his clothes off while Cliff removes his own. He stands next to the bed, stroking his cock slowly, waiting for Rick to get his feet free of his slacks. "I'd ask if you're too drunk for this except I'm going to do all the work," he says almost conversationally, while Rick's face flushes darker the longer it takes him to get rid of his clothes. "And your cock definitely looks interested, man."

Rick moans a little at that, and then he covers his face with his hands for a second, sucking in a deep breath. Cliff grins. It's almost too easy, when Rick's weak like this. A few barely dirty words and he's wound up. Cliff digs around the various packs of cigarettes in the bedside table for the K-Y, then he gets on the bed, one knee between Rick's knees. "Did you want to turn over?" he asks, leaning down to place a sucking kiss along Rick's collarbone, intent on leaving a mark just so Rick won't forget who was in his bed when he wakes up hungover tomorrow. 

"Make me," Rick replies, even as his hand pushes through Cliff's hair and drags down his back, tracing the scars. It used to bother Cliff, allowing Rick to do that, but now his mind just acknowledges it's happening and continues on. He lets up with a final nip. Then he flips Rick over.

Rick groans and pulls a pillow underneath his face as Cliff nudges his knees apart, then slides a hand up the inside of his thigh. Rick stays in shape, prone to a slight softness if he doesn't, and Cliff's been the one to yank him out of bed for a run more days than not. He figures it's his own hard work reflected in the muscles of Rick's legs. "Get comfortable, come on," he murmurs against the back of Rick's neck. 

Rick works himself up a little on his elbows, his hips coming up off the mattress. "Don't - don't go too fast," he says, barely loud enough for Cliff to hear. "Too drunk for that."

"Yeah."

Cliff works the K-Y over his cock, slicking extra over the head and shuddering as he does. He rubs what's left on his fingers over Rick's asshole, listens to Rick's loud breathing and the stifled moans. Rick's shoulders are tense; he always holds himself so still when Cliff does this. "You let me fuck you," he says, shaking his head, "but you still don't want me to touch you right here."

Rick doesn't reply other than the soft, shocked noise he makes when Cliff circles his fingertips with more pressure. "That's it, I got you," Cliff says, then lines his cock up and pushes, slowly, watching. Rick trembles for the first few seconds, but once Cliff's inside, he relaxes. The tension drains right out of him like water swirling down a drain. His shoulders drop, his back smoothes out. 

Cliff puts one hand on the jut of Rick's shoulder and the other on the meat of his hip, and sets a slow pace. Sometimes, he fucks Rick until Rick cries, which is infinitely preferable to Rick crying over his career. He's sure Rick would agree, if Rick could ever talk about this in the daylight, but they've never said a word to each other about sex while they're sober unless it's about having it with a woman. Which Cliff has done and will continue to do, and he figures Rick might want to find a wife one of these days, before he gets any older. 

Rick turns his head a little, enough for Cliff to see part of his face, to watch him take desperate breaths with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "You don't have anything to - _fuck_ \- to say?" he asks, the words punctuated by gasps. 

"What should I say?" Cliff slides his hand from Rick's hip down and around, to curl around Rick's cock. "How good you feel right now?" He squeezes none too gently, and Rick moans, stutters on whatever he was going to say. "How you better sleep like the fucking dead after this?"

There are other things Cliff could say, but he's smart enough not to say them, in the interests of doing this again.

Rick whines, muffled into the pillow, and pushes back slightly. "What was that?" Cliff asks, and speeds up just a fraction. He's starting to feel it now, too - sweat beading along his hairline, the slight shake creeping up his thighs, the friction of the sheets under his knees. The tickle along the soles of his feet. He squeezes Rick's cock again and Rick shouts, swearing. "Yeah, that's right," Cliff breathes in his ear. Rick nearly bucks him off, all restless movement as he comes, but Cliff's got just enough height on Rick to keep him in place, keep fucking him through it. 

Then Rick goes nearly limp, arms curling under the pillow, and this is when Cliff likes doing him best - all the fight gone out of him, the agitation and turbulence disappeared. He runs his hands over Rick's back, down to his ass, and fucks into him until he can't anymore, when the relief of coming rolls through him all at once and he feels like he's nearly choking on it. 

"Cliff," Rick is saying, "my thigh is cramping, you fucker," and slapping at Cliff's leg. 

"Right." Cliff pulls out carefully and sits on the bed. He doesn't look at Rick shifting and wincing. 

"You better not wake me up to run tomorrow," Rick grumbles at him. 

"Don't want to give you a heart attack twice in twenty-four hours," Cliff replies, and Rick punches him ineffectually in the arm before Cliff can stand up. "I better go. Brandy gets hungry."

Rick pulls the sheet over his body and yawns. "Pick me up tomorrow at nine?"

"You got it."


End file.
